


Art Deco Kissing Byzantine Iconography

by L_M_Biggs



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Like, M/M, and i found it in my inbox, and there's three little snippets, before we were even dating, forever ago, russian aristocracy au, so guess what you fuckers get, the bae asked me for this, there is no smut at all, this is probably the least smutty thing i will ever write, what the hell is going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-29 02:34:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12072792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_M_Biggs/pseuds/L_M_Biggs
Summary: In 1918 Imperial Russia fell and a dynasty came to a horrific, bloody end.In 1917 the family of the Countess Marzan sought sanctuary in Russia.In 1948 Count Percival Marzan began to go by the name Percival Graves.In 1958 Percival Graves met Credence Barebone.





	1. The Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KamikazeSoundSociety](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KamikazeSoundSociety/gifts).



He walks through New York City with delicately rouged lips, pale, high cheekbones, stark black suit and heeled shoes. A white ermine stole and muff, a pair of winking rubies set in ostentatious golden earrings, grazing the boy’s glass-cut jaw as he waits outside of the Consulate-General of Russia. 

He looks like something out of a painting, Art Deco gently brushing lips with Byzantine Iconography.

When the doors to the plain white building open and the men come pouring out he is quickly engulfed in the greatcoat of his lover, Percival Marzan, colloquially known as Percival Graves. 

“Seraphina, join us for a lunch.” The man’s English is flawless, from years of living in safety on American shores after fleeing a crumbling Imperial Russia. He had been quick to stamp out the accent, even though he has spent hours lovingly whispering lessons in the language into Credence’s skin. 

“Us?” Seraphina, ever the Southern Belle, does not let on her surprise at the sight of Credence wandering over. She was aware of the Barebones. Senator Mary Lou Barebone is not popular in liberal New York, and her son has been missing from her speeches, from public eye, for quite some time now. He is unmistakable, even with his hair grown out and his face fleshed out from proper meals and care. 

“Yes,” Percival grasps Credence’s hand, twining their fingers after lacing their arms together. Credence warms in a way unfamiliar to him, thawed by the touch of this man from a world of ice and snow. The smile that Percival gives him is warm and it is for him alone. “My fiance, Mr. Credence Barebone. We are to be married in December.”


	2. The Dance

They had met in winter. 

Credence always cherished the winter months because of that reason. He had been born in July, a summer child, but when Percival had asked he had told the man he was born on the first of December, a mere three weeks before they had met at some obnoxious Christmas Gala where people paid a lot of money to seem generous. Credence knew who Percival Graves was, who Count Percival Marzan had fashioned himself into. He had clippings hidden away in his room, tucked in the pages of a notebook hidden under a loose floorboard in his old old house, of the older man cutting dashing figures and articles raving about Russian Aristocracy alive and well in America.

“Dance with me.” Percival had demanded, standing before Credence, all imposing, solid lines, his tuxedo crisp black and white. Credence’s own suit was second-hand and he had worn it for the past three years at these various events. His mother took him simply so that she would not show up alone. What with no Mr. Barebone to stand by her side, she only had her son to attend to her whims and play admiring, devoted son.

“I cannot, my mother is-”

“Senator Barebone, yes, I am aware.” Count Marzan, Percival Graves seemed too simple a name for him, looked down at him with such dark, piercing eyes that Credence was unable to escape the gaze. Perhaps he was not the only one who had kept tabs on the man of his desires. “I wish to dance with you. And your mother will not deter me.”

“She deters me.” Credence responded back, even as he allowed the man to guide him to the dancefloor, a waltz playing by the large, glittering orchestra hired for the event. 

Count Marzan wore several golden rings on his fingers and they bit coldly into Credence’s own hand, an equally heavy, demanding palm on the small of his back. “She shall not deter me. You are beautiful, stunning, and I wish to dance with you.”

“For how long?” Credence asked, eyes flitting up to that captivating, dark gaze. “So long as I am young and beautiful?”

“For longer still.” The man turned Credence in a slow dip. “Perhaps to my grave. We shall see.”


	3. The Cathedral

Credence had walked through New York City more than most vagrants had. In his lifetime he had seen every inch of the city, in all of it’s symmetry and all of it’s decay. He had always found his home beautiful in it’s own way, even with the smoke and the grime that coated the poorer districts. 

He could never profess any familiarity with the Russian Orthodox Cathedral of the Transfiguration of Our Lord, tucked away in Brooklyn off of 12th North Street, and he did not see a point in lying to Percival about it. 

Standing now, in what he had come to think of as their pew, he could not help the sense of calm and peace that fell over him as he watched the Mass unfold. Percival was not religious but he was devoted to his family, and every Sunday he and his Grandmama and mother and father would go to Mass and sing the beautiful hymns and pray and receive communion. Credence had not been baptized yet, and as such would walk after Percival, arms crossed over his chest like many of the children and unbaptized that littered the mass, bowing his head and accepting the gentle blessing of the priest upon his forehead. 

It was enough, he supposed, despite the protests and needling of his future in-laws. He was to be baptized, they would insist, and Percival would firmly remind them that if Credence did not wish to do so then he would not have to. 

“Why should he abandon the teachings of his Protestant mother simply because he comes to our Mass?”

Credence didn’t mind. The idea of being baptized, cleansed of his mother’s teaching and the sins he bore of hatred and intolerance, was one that brought him relief. 

“Hello, my child.” Matushka Illia smiled at Credence, the older man seating himself beside Credence in the empty church. “Why are you here alone?”

“The church is beautiful.” Credence whispered, looking to the golden flourishes of the place of worship. For all the external plainness of the building, inside it was beautiful. The severe faces of the iconography softened by the eyes, all of the saints and angels looking kindly upon Credence. Percival knew he enjoyed the silence and solitude of the church. “I like to pretend that I belong here too.”

“You do, my child, as surely as any of the others of my congregation.”

“No.” For all that Credence was dressed up, in his black suits and his jewellery and his furs and his arms about Percival’s, one hand clutching the prayer book that Percival’s grandmamma had been teaching him how to read, he was not of the same ilk as the Marzans. As the Orthodox. As the quietly faithful of this beautiful church, with it’s jewel-bright artwork and stained glass, the symphonic voices of the devout singing in harmony in a language he could only barely begin to understand.

“Your mother is a cruel creature, Credence Barebone.” Matushka Illia said simply and Credence’s eyes snapped over. “You are not so unkind as her. Be kind to yourself, and perhaps one day you will accept that this is, in fact, where you belong.”

Credence looked to the vaulted ceiling, to the ornate crucifix hung above their heads, to the monstrance glittering on display behind the altar, to the stained glass casting beautiful kaleidoscopic rainbows across the floor and Credence’s own hands. 

“Credence.” Percival’s voice called softly and Credence turned, smiling at the sight of his lover as Percival’s even, clear footsteps rang out as he approached him. The man genuflected out of sheer habit before sliding into the pew beside Credence, wrapping his arm around Credence’s shoulders, letting the boy press his head to Percival’s neck, still looking at the beauty of the church around him. 

After a few moments Percival leaned down, whispering softly into Credence’s hair. “You looked like a painting.” He murmured, making Credence’s heart seize in his chest with sheer emotion that this man could think such things of him.

Perhaps soon he could believe Matushka Illia.


	4. The Jewels

“Beautiful.” Percival murmured, staring upon Credence as the boy stood, in nothing but his own porcelain skin and the glittering array of gold, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires. A rainbow of large, angular jewels, the boy wearing enormous earrings kissing his neck and jaw. His dark eyes gleamed with delight at the effect he was having on his lover, staring at Percival with all the predatory reserve of someone from the time of the Romanovs. 

Percival cannot help but wonder how devastating his sweet boy would have been in the political world his grandmother had grown up in. Even now, each time they go to a gala, a celebration, a meeting, with Credence whispering and charming and sweetly cajoling politicians. None could resist Percival’s sweet boy’s gentle inquiries, his earnest eyes, the plush parting of his lips.

Now, here, as he was, bare save for precious jewels that Percival had bought for him, had gifted to him, delighted in draping him in finery and furs and beautiful stones aplenty. Credence smiled, coy and soft and feline, stepping forward to stand beside Percival’s chair, trailing his fingers over the man’s jaw and lips softly. 

Percival cupped the pale hand, holding it to his lips as he murmured into the skin. "You are beautiful. My own icon and this is my place of worship.”


	5. The Senator

“Senator Barebone!”

“Yes, Mr. Worthy?” Mary Lou Barebone is a severe woman. From the sharp lines of her face and the cut of her jaw, right down to the straight line of her bobbed hair and the creases of her jacket, skirt and shirt. She is every inch the professional Senator she has made herself out to be. 

“Your son, Credence Barebone, was recently in the papers in regards to his nuptial announcements, married to the Count Percival Marzan.”

“Such an arrangement is not recognized by the United States Government and never will be, Mr. Worthy.” Mary Lou’s eyes are sharp and her smile is thin, a razor-blade edge promising blood. “And as for the boy… Credence has long since made his decision when he ran off with a fugitive of Russian law and has been living in sin with the man for god knows how long. I pray for his soul just as I pray for the souls of all sinners.” She prays at night, to a vengeful and vicious god, part doctrine and part her own desperate imaginings. She prays for fire and brimstone and hell on earth for the ungrateful bastard child she had brought into the world. 

“No congratulations for your only son, Senator Barebone?”

“I cannot support the boy. He has made a decision that is an affront to Man, God, and all of the good morals I have tried to instill in him.” The belt had been unable to cleanse the boy of his wickedness, and now he stands side by side with a man who has no right to be alive, who should have been slaughtered in the snow with all of the rest of his ilk.

“No hope of reconciliation with him, your only son?”

Mary Lou Barebone looks up upon the crowd and sees a familiar set of eyes. Dark and feline and set in a pale, severe face. He has his father’s face, but the clench of his jaw and the purse of his lips are certainly Mary Lou’s own. She knows what he sees and she knows what she sees, as he stands there in a black suit, an ermine stole and wearing jewelled earrings. 

“He is not my son.” She says, clearly, and for the first time in her life she feels a flicker of pride towards him.

Credence Marzan does not flinch at the statement, does not look away from his mother. Instead he meets her gaze, blinks once, slowly, before turning away with cold, quiet dignity. 

He is not her son. Perhaps he never was.


	6. The Lovers

The first time Credence Barebone is seen after his disappearance from his mother’s side four months prior, it is at a summer party. Outside on the lawn of the Grave Mansion there were several tables and small tents set up to shield the guests from the sun. A small instrumental band played music softly while the guests milled about. A small platform for dancing, waiters hired out for the event that the Marzans had decided to host. 

And there, standing beside Percival Marzan was the slender, lovely, shy Credence Barebone. 

“Such a cold little creature.” One man whispered to his wife. 

“Looks so unhappy, poor thing.” A woman whispered to her sister. 

“Beautiful though.” A young man murmured absently to himself.

Credence Barebone looks upon his surroundings as if seeing them through a cinema screen. His hair has grown out, gently styled about his cheeks and his lips painted a deep red, his eyes lined in khol. He looks like he could have stepped out of a magazine, standing demurely on the arm of Percival Marzan.

“They envy me, you know.” Percival could be heard, smiling down at Credence. The boy looked at him, silent and impassive, a question in his gaze not voiced aloud. “I stand here, with the most beautiful creature in all of New York City on my arm, and you deigned to be mine.”

And one woman swore she heard a reply.

“You saw me. Before anyone else did. Before they cared to. You saw me.” She would go to her grave saying that she saw the boy smile, well and truly smile, up at Percival Marzan. “I deign to do nothing, I love you wholeheartedly.”


	7. The Cost

“Mr. Barebone.”

Credence looked away from the shop window he stood in front of, his eyes fixing upon the Count as the man approached him, his billowing greatcoat lapping at his legs as he walked towards Credence. Count Marzan looked into the window, raising a brow at the delicate glittering baubles displayed there. 

“Did not take you for a Tiffany & Co. sort of man.”

“They’re pretty. I like pretty.” Credence murmured, pulling his plain black coat around himself tighter. “I like walking in this area. Looking at the pretty things that I can’t have.” Credence’s eyes flickered to Percival and there was a sharpness in his gaze that Percival had seen before in the boy’s mother. An assessment. A test. “Something you and I seem to have in common.”

“You say that as if I cannot have you.” Percival turned and offered his arm and Credence took it, the two of them walking slowly down the street. “I am always one to have charitable feelings towards beautiful young men with sad, dark eyes.”

“To your detriment, no doubt.” Credence hummed, looking straight ahead, refusing to look at the man he held onto. “Count Marzan, you must understand that my mother is a cruel woman with no tolerance for people of your… Disposition.”

“Is that why she beats you?” 

Credence’s grip tightened on the man’s bicep as he stared ahead.

“My personal assistant, Tina Goldstein. She and her sister are quite the set of eyes and ears. And gossip always has a grain of truth.”

“A sodomite Russian aristocrat who employs a pair of Jewesses as his spies. My mother’s head might spin with the scandal of it all.” Credence’s lips twitched upwards the barest hint.

“Don’t all children go through a phase of wanting to scorn their parents? Who else for you to let yourself be had by than a sodomite Russian aristocrat who employs a pair of Jewesses as spies?”

Credence’s lips curved into a positively feline smile as he thought of that fact, of his mother’s face, not noticing that they were walking towards Bergdorf’s until they made it to the front steps.

“And why are we here?”

“I am to buy my beautiful young lover an ermine stole.”

Credence tilted his head, looking directly at Count Marzan and taking in the handsome set of his features, carved from marble and darkly drawing the eye. “If your intention is to buy me…. Know that the cost might be greater than a few dollars spent in a shop.”

Percival smiled, slow and languid, a large cat licking at it’s teeth while beholding tender prey. “No cost is too great for you, sweet Credence.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am terrible at historical fiction and this is just a spur of the moment prompt fill that has become far too big. Please forgive any inaccuracies.


End file.
